From below, the little groups of excited people along the street looked up and saw his thin, bent figure alone in the fading sunlight, toiling resolutely upward.

Other groups back in the square talked among themselves, not a few in whispers.  A listener among them might have heard such expressions as, “He’ll be blood-atoned sure!”—­“They’ll make a breach upon him!”—­“They’ll accomplish his decease!”—­“He’ll be sent over the rim of the basin right quick!” One indignant Saint, with a talent for euphemism, was heard to say, “Brigham will have his spirit disembodied!”

To the priests and Elders on the platform Elder Wardle was saying, “The trouble with him was he was crazy with fever.  Why, I’ll bet my best set of harness his pulse ain’t less than a hundred and twenty this minute.”

The others looked at Brigham.

“He’s a crazy man, sure enough,” assented the Prophet, “but my opinion is he’ll stay crazy, and it wouldn’t be just the right thing by Israel to let him go on talking before strangers.  You see, it sounds so almighty sane!”

Back in the crowd Prudence and Follett had lingered a little at the latter’s suggestion, for he had caught the drift of the talk.  When he had comprehended its meaning they set off up the hill, full of alarm.

At the door Christina met them.  They saw she had been crying.

“Where is father, Christina?”

“Himself saddle his horse, and say, ‘I go to toe some of those marks.’  He say, ‘I see you plenty not no more, so good-bye!’ He kissed me,” she added.

“Which way did he go?”

“So!” She pointed toward the road that led out of the valley to the north.

“I’ll go after him,” said Follett.

“I’ll go with you.  Saddle Dandy and Kit—­and Christina will have something for you to eat; you’ve had nothing since morning.”

“I reckon I know where we’ll have to go,” said Follett, as he went for the saddles.

CHAPTER XLII.

The Little Bent Man at the Foot of the Cross

It was dusk when they rode down the hill together.  They followed the canon road to its meeting with the main highway at the northern edge of Amalon.  Where the roads joined they passed Bishop Wright, who, with his hat off, turned to stare at them, and to pull at his fringe of whisker in seeming perplexity.

“He must have been on his way to our house,” Prudence called.

“With that hair and whiskers,” answered Follett, with some irrelevance, “he looks like an old buffalo-bull just before shedding-time.”

They rode fast until the night fell, scanning the road ahead for a figure on horseback.  When it was quite dark they halted.

“We might pass him,” suggested Follett.  “He was fairly tuckered out, and he might fall off any minute.”

“Shall we go on slowly?” she asked.

“We might miss him in the dark.  But the moon will be up in an hour, and then we can go at full speed.  We better wait.”